The Neon Demon is a textbook example of those supremely ‘relevant’ films, guaranteeing and commercialising subversion as a calculated effect. Refn offers us a neatly prepacked metaphor, supplemented with an astrological index that can help us in ‘decoding’ our product – even before the slightest attempt at interpretation is waged. By way of an absurd faith in difference, however, a ceaseless repetition of the Same ensues: an alternation which, above all, serves to camouflage a true sense of change. The director can but excel in the reproduction of his personal obsessions. Not without surprise, his films are as ephemeral as the world they claim to depict.

Without any sense of scruples, contemporary viewers are asked to consume an “unfiltered everyday”, gowned in the guise of a “mythical seriousness”. The mendacious diversitarian theatre enacted by El Arbi and Fallah – which attempts to import an allegedly ‘copious’ but ultimately imaginary world into the cosy, autochthonous bedroom – can only be celebrated by grace of a critical suicide.